(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
I wonder how it got so close without us hearing. But then, Sam does have a powerful set of lungs when he’s upset.
The postman was once an averaged sized person, but since Zero Hour the limbs have struggled to change their shape beneigh the work clothes. The motorcycle helmet is still bright red, and sits crooked as the head has began to morph and deform. The fluro saftey jacket is caked with dust and mud, and sometime over the last few weeks it has lost a shoe.
Maybe it sees us, or detects us, or something. Right now it sways in the bright morning sun, dazzled and confused, legs wobbling.
My trigger finger begins to twitch.
Sam knows the drill. For the first time this morning he is still, and lets me pick him off the slide and put him into the seat of the pram. I turn him away from the postman, and reach into the carryall for the earmuffs. They make his head look like two giant pimples have replaced his ears, and they must feel heavy. But Sam doesn’t touch them. He knows the drill.